The Nest Best Thing
by Random Ruth
Summary: The birds in the park are busy making nests to attract the ladies, but one bird has always struggled with that. He needs a very special nest. Meanwhile, Sherlock and John are waiting for a tweet. One-shot and the title is not a typo!


**The Nest Best Thing**

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The dawn chorus begins as the golden sun peaks over the horizon. A few dogs chase sticks on their early morning walks, a homeless man sleeps under a soggy blanket next to a thick chestnut tree, and a woman jogs along the footpath wearing very bright colours. Some of the wooden benches along the footpath are occupied by people.

My tree of choice is a relatively young oak tree. Its leaves glow a beautiful green as the sun shines through them every morning and evening. I listen to the other birds singing carefully. Every bird's song has a unique tone, each trying to have a stronger voice than the others. To be heard in the crowd is the aim.

I fly up to the highest branch in my tree and I take up my position. By the minute the song is getting louder, momentum building as more and more of my neighbours join in. I puff out my feathered chest, take a deep breath, and sing. My voice blends in with the others, the notes a little off for a second until I hit my stride.

As I sing I catch glimpses of other birds as they try to make nests for the ladies. I am always making nests but mine never seem to attract any of the ladies. A few of said ladies sit on the metal, pointed fence that surrounds the perimeter of the park. They are listening to our song, watching us. One takes off and flies towards me. I stop singing in anticipation and puff out my chest, but she flies past me and lands on a tree nearby.

Meanwhile the chorus reaches the crescendo, before dying down to a few pips here and there. This will carry on throughout the day as the people go about their business. One by one the other birds swoop down from their perches to gather twigs and grass to make nests in the hope that one of the ladies with come over to them. I stay on my tall branch for a few moments, before flying down to a lower one where there's a better view of the ground.

I was never good at making nests. It seems that the natural talents that all of the other birds have seem to have skipped me. I look around the park. Some people with suits and briefcases are starting to appear and a few bicycles whiz by.

There is a wooden bench very close to my tree I look down on it now. There is a person sitting on it. He's very still, like he's waiting for something to happen. His hair is a sandy brown, much the same colour as my feathers. I cannot believe my eyes, for beside him on the bench is the perfect nest! It appears to be made from lots of small twigs. It's much larger the nests I normally make, but maybe the ladies will like it. The man is not moving much, so I chance a low swoop to check his reaction just in case. His eyes are glued to a little screen in his hand with other people on it. He doesn't react to me at all.

None of the other birds seem to have noticed this ready-made nest yet. I can't believe my luck.

I swoop down again, this time landing in the centre of the nest. The nest under my feet is solid, but it is still the softest nest I've ever sat in. The man beside the nest still hasn't noticed me. I decide to keep an eye on him while I make myself at home. The nest doesn't seem to be made of twigs, but lots and lots of hairs. I make a swirl in the middle and sit down, tucking my wings in by my sides. The nest is nice and warm on my tummy.

A glance at the fence reveals that the ladies are watching me, one with her head tilting to the side. I look away; pretend I don't know they're watching. But my chest puffs out all the same.

"Can we go yet?" asks the man beside the nest suddenly. He doesn't look up, still staring at the people on his little screen.

A few moments later my nest moves slightly. A voice says from below my nest, "Once he sends the tweet then we can go. I'll know it's him we're after. Be ready." The voice is deep, so much so that it vibrates my nest. I wonder where it's coming from.

While I'm trying to work this out, the man with sandy hair sighs and shifts on the bench. Someone walks past with a steaming cardboard mug. The man follows the stranger with his eyes, and inhales deeply. "I would love a cup of tea right now."

"Busy," the deep voice says, sounding distracted now.

"Can I not go and—" The man turns slightly to face my nest. He freezes mid-sentence. He looks me in the eye. I stare back at him. If the ladies weren't watching I'd probably fly away. But I have to be brave; ladies like that. "Sherlock," the man whispers, "don't move."

"That's what I've been telling you to do all night, John," says the deep voice.

The man shifts on the bench again so his body is facing my nest. "No, really, don't move." He's been slowly moving his little black thing with a screen up to face me.

"Why are you whispering?" the deep voice snaps.

"There's a bird on your head," whispers the man. He points at me, smiles slightly.

A loud "_What_?" cuts into the air – and suddenly my nest is fighting back. It sways from side to side. My little claws dig in. A hand reaches up from nowhere and I am forced from my nest. I fly upwards quickly and the hand only just misses me. "Is it gone?" the deep voice asks.

"I told you not to move – I was getting that on camera!" says the man, sounding slightly irritated. "That would have been great for the blog."

"Oh for God's sake, must everything I do be on that stupid blog?"

"Yes," the man says simply.

I wait in my tree for a few minutes, aware that the ladies are still staring at me. The nest is too good to give up. I have to have it. The man and the voice have gone silent. I chance landing on the nest again. The little swirl that I made is still in place so it doesn't take me long to make myself comfortable.

The man looks up at me after a little while and he grins at me. He silently and slowly moves his black thing to face me. I look at him, curious. I don't usually have nests this close to people. They are actually quite interesting when you stare at them for long enough.

"He's sent it!" the voice shouts from below my nest. "Come on, John!" The nest moves so much then that I struggle not to fall off. My claws dig in. "Get off!" The hand comes from nowhere again. It just misses me since I fly up just in time.

The man still has his black thing pointed at me. "Ha ha, I've got it! This is great!" He puts the black thing in his pocket. "Nature must be trying to tell you that you need a haircut, Sherlock."

"Shut up and come on!"

I watch from the safety of my tree as the sandy-haired man and my nest run off along the path into the distance. There are more people around now and soon they're lost in the crowd. I think I'll have another go at making my own nest – ready-made ones have a tendency to run off.

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**Author's Note:** I had so much fun with this – but choosing words from a bird's point of view is surprisingly hard. I know very little about birds but I did some research and I think this is a Wren. I know very little about London as well so I've made the setting a general park. Written because of Benedict's hair on that episode of _Top Gear_. I just love the idea of Sherlock's hair attracting the animal kingdom! Also my birthday present to Benedict even though he'll never see it – happy birthday!


End file.
